


Nothing New

by susiephalange



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Family, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Childhood Trauma, Christmas Fluff, F/F, First Christmas, Fluffy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), POV Female Character, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: Wanda takes it upon herself to help a fellow Avenger recovering from a terrible past to enjoy their first time celebrating Christmas.





	Nothing New

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from Wattpad. My request was to write this fic based around this [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqWig2WARb0&feature=youtu.be).

When the air gets colder, it’s the reminder that it’s _that_ time of the year. Not that you have anything against the end of October. Or when the autumnal leaves grew crisp toward the looming of December. Whereas you lived for Halloween, it was Christmastime which made you unsure of you and who you were to everyone around you. Luckily for you, you had a whole team to support you on your healing journey, and endless amounts of visits to shrinks and therapy sessions to get over the whole ‘ _abducted as a child and experimented on by_ HYDRA’ thing.

Wanda Maximoff was a great help through it all.

Apart from her being tortured too, lost her brother, and chose to use her almighty gifts for the good of the world, you admired your fellow Avenger for a little more. It didn’t kill you to have a crush on your best friend; she was gorgeous, fierce, deadly. Perhaps it would one day – she had her eyes on someone else, you were sure.

But Christmas…

You hardly noticed it was December until you caught Clint Barton re-enacting that scene in _Love Actually_ where Hugh Grant dances all over the place, except he was doing it to that catchy Mariah Carey song. After that, it was a slippery slope, and everyone got a little festive. Scott Lang wired up a massive set of lights (with a little help from Tony Stark), and the whole exterior of the facility practically glowed at night. Thor sent over a customary bell from Asgard. T’Challa sent over a wreath, made of wood so fragrant and flowers so beautiful you almost sat by the door all day to enjoy it.

When the air gets colder, you rescind into your collection of sweaters, opting to take your meals in your bedroom, train away from the team when it’s required. Steve Rogers understands, to a point, but really, he was just the lucky version of the scenario you went through. He had one magical _ka-blam!_ and became Captain America. You had more poison in your biology than a pesticide plant, and yet, instead of dying, you could fly, and walk the walls like a bug. They called you The Beetle, but you rarely went out on missions these days.

And naturally, it made you climb back into your proverbial shell. Clint understands, and turns down the music. Scott made sure the lights didn’t flash so much around where your room was. Nobody rang the bell around you (besides, it was deafening), nobody made a big show and dance about how it was Christmas.

It was nice. Safe.

* * *

Your parents had taken their eyes off you for only five minutes. Your mother to attend to the carollers by the front door, your father to check the boiler in the basement. It was in this time that you had gone to the back porch to see the snowfall when you had been taken.

You were four years old.

All because your mother was an ex-military contractor who had made enemies in all the wrong places. All because your father carried a gene in your body that for centuries and centuries meant you were different to other people. All because HYDRA were bastards, you spent Christmas that year, and for the next ten years, locked away in a hole beneath the earth with scientists prodding you into submission.

When you had been rescued from them, by none other than the Winder Soldier himself, you had been but a stray dog, an echo of a human being. Most fourteen-year-old girls follow boy bands on Twitter, and have shitty drug store makeup and families who love them dearly. Bucky Barnes went the extra mile, and after rescuing your ratty ass from those bastards, had the Avengers kill them all. Tony Stark had you put in a facility to de-brainwash you. Your parents were worried, shaken, having spent the last decade thinking their daughter dead, when instead, she was made into a monster because of their own sins.

You became an Avenger at eighteen to practically monitor you. You didn’t mind. It was better than life before, and anything more than that was normal enough for you.

Outside your bedroom, you can see the snow. It’s falling, steadily, flakes one at a time from the sky like the movies show it to be. You sit with your knees close to your chest, back against the side of the bed. Unmoving. Silent. When it gets colder, you remember flashes of that night – recalling the darkness you had felt, the screams you had let out, heard to nobody. You were only a child, a baby! You shake your head to rid the images, and wrap your arms closer around your body.

You don’t hear the bedroom door open until you see the familiar face of Wanda take a seat beside you on the floor. She’s wearing grey skinny jeans, and a massively oversized red sweater that you suspect she stole from one of the other heroes. Apart from her being completely perfect, she’s respectful of your space, and sits beside you for nearly ten minutes without talking.

“Do you miss the snow?” She asks you.

You look to her, “What do you mean?” From the corner of your eye, you can still see it falling from the sky, covering the manicured lawns of Stark’s property. “It’s right there.”

Wanda shakes her head. “I have never seen you touch it, though,” she comments, her accent prominent in the words she had selected to speak, “You watch it with such wonder, I could not help but wonder myself if you had never touched it.”

She’s very right. You don’t reply verbally; instead, you move to the full-length ceiling to floor window, and place your palm across where a drift is growing at the bottom of the pane. “Look, I’m touching it,” you say to her, an edge to your voice. “I don’t miss it at all.”

Wanda nods, and does not press the topic. You both sit there in silky silence, watching it fall away from the hustle of the team, the requirements of the world until you’re interrupted by Vision, who wears an apron that says _We Whisk You a Merry Christmas!_ in a silly curly font. He smiles. “I made rumballs!”

* * *

While everyone had a manila folder stuffed with information, you are left at the breakfast bar, slowly eating the dregs of the cereal box, crunching on them without milk. You’d put milk in your breakfast, but you do not wish to hear a whisper of what is going on.

When they come out of the briefing room, you’re sitting upon the chandelier, legs wrapped around it as you devour a book, some classic that Dr Banner recommended. Nobody notices you until the light turns on, and your shadow is cast. Nobody comments though, until you fly down, and grab yourself a snack from the communal fridge.

“So, Peter Pan,” Tony comments, passing you the packet of blueberries you’d been searching for, “It’s going to be just you and Maximoff here for a couple of days. You think you’ll be okay?”

You raise a brow, grabbing a handful of berries. “Depends on your definition of okay.”

He raises a brow, “Well, to most people it means,” he flicks his holo-watch on, and brings up the Merriam-Webster, and recites, “Agreeing to, satisfactory but not especially good.” He looks to you, minimising the web page, and adds, “Is that good enough for you, Beetle-bug?”

“When will you be back?” You ask with a mouthful.

Tony goes to answer, but as he walks past, Steve says, “Best case scenario, next Wednesday. Worst, the Sunday after that.”

You nod. That was yesterday, and now it’s exactly two weeks to Christmas and you are practically in _Home Alone_ with Wanda, except, while everyone is away in Dubai, there are no house-invaders, and you both are flicking between reruns of _Sabrina The Teenage Witch_ and _Freaks and Geeks_ , seated close to one another on the couch beneath a blanket to save on the thermostat.

It’s snowing outside, the white blanket thicker than the last time you can remember sitting and watching it come down with Wanda. Her head is pressed against your shoulder. On screen, Salem is complaining about something. You tune it out, your hand brushing against hers beneath the blanket, and like a damn teenager, you feel a heat creep up your neck.

At the touch, a jolt of red energy comes from her fingers. But instead of feeling electricity like all the other jolts you have received in your life, you feel a warmth, a glow spreading from your phalanges up your arms until it settles in your chest.

“Oh,” Wanda breathes, looking up.

You do too, and see it. While you felt the power from her touch, there seemed to have been a reaction, and now, above you where you sit upon the communal couch in the Avengers facility living room, it is snowing. Indoors.

“Sorry – I,” she herself has a roaring blush.

She goes to move her hands, to cancel out what neuroelectric spell she had just cast, but yours move quicker, and catch her fingers in your own. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your voice near next to silent. On screen, there’s some sort of commotion, but it is nothing compared to the commotion going on in your rib cage, where your heart beats a mile a minute, the commotion in your head, where your mind is urging you to lean closer, to move toward her. Your lips are almost upon hers, and her scent – the scent of strawberries and peppermint – is overpowering. “Kiss me.”

She does.

* * *

They’re back when Steve had said they would be back, but after a week of recuperation and recovery from it all, they’re back at it again. Except, Scott has taken himself down to spend the holidays with his family, bringing plenty of presents for Cassie. Clint has done the same thing, taking enough gifts and time off after Christmas to enjoy the holidays with his family. Your parents can’t come up, instead spending it visiting your uncle in England and his children.

It’s okay. If they were around, you’d have to put a label on what you and Wanda are.

And while they’re all bustling around in the main living area, you’re chilling upon the ceiling, your bare feet attached to the plaster. It’s not like you’re locked away in your bedroom, but still, you don’t think that you’re magically cured from your abusive childhood. A kiss does not cure anxiety, does not magically make you into a new woman.

Wanda is hovering beside you. While you’ve got weird bug feet that stick to the ceiling, keeping yourself upside down, she’s telekinetic, and levitating herself, and the both of you are chilling away from the commotion of Christmas carols and last-minute decorating panic, you’ve got a pair of earbuds between you, and listening to songs from her playlist.

You’ve been unnoticed up here on the ceiling. Below, life goes on as always in the Avengers facility. Silently, you look to Wanda as you hear the lyrics.

“ _Tell the neighbours I'm not sorry, if I'm breaking walls down_ ,” the song goes, her lips mouthing along with the lyrics as to keep your location a secret, “ _Building your girls second story - Ripping all your floors out_.”

Down below, there’s a misunderstanding going on. You have not been focusing on it, but more in the way that Wanda’s fingers move to place strands of hair behind her ears, the way she looks upside down, lips soft, parted, eyes catlike, wide with wonder.

“ _Saw your face, heard your name, gotta get with you_ ,” you mouth to her, watching how she smiles, how she sees every detail of you like you see everything of her, “ _Girls like girls like boys do; nothing new_.”

“Hey, how long have you two been up there?” Sam Wilson crosses his arms, gazing up at you two. Bucky Barnes is beside him, and gives you both a little smirk, and goes on with his business. “What’re you doing, spying?”

You take your earbud out, and releasing the muscles that hold your body, you somersault from the vaulted ceiling, and land before him. As impressive as that manoeuvre is, you’re not as tall as The Falcon, and he looks down to you like you’re just a child having been caught doing something naughty.

“Hmm?” He questions.

You shrug. “Just chilling out with my girlfriend, birdman,” you tell him, a burst of bravado filling you up as if there was a confidence demon possessing you instead of your introvert self. At this, you excuse yourself, and walk toward the pantry. “Wanda, want popcorn?”

She nods, and waves to Sam Wilson from where she’s still floating near the ceiling.

As you go to make popcorn, he shakes his head. “Kids these days…”

* * *

On Christmas Day, you wake to see Wanda knocking on the frame of your doorway. Her pyjamas are red, with designs of bunnies. Her hair is akin to a bird’s nest, eyes bleary from sleep, and still, she’s got the biggest smile, and taking your hand, drags you into the living room, where the rest of the team are seated around the Christmas tree.

They’re all holding presents addressed to them, and as you take a seat, you’re handed one from Bruce Banner. It’s wrapped in light pink paper with a design of stars, your name written in a half-cursive, half printed handwriting.

“Everyone’s here?” Bucky asks, and without hearing any negative replies, rips into his present. It’s a sweatband, and armband set, orange. “What is this?”

Tony beams. “You missed the eighties, so, I’m bringing the eighties to you.”

In your lap, your present waits, unopened. Sam opens his to find a book, _A Complete Guide to Bird Watching in North America_ (“Aw yis,” he says); Steve finds he has a pair of socks from Natasha, with an American flag on the front, and a pride flag on the back (“Amerigay,” Nat explains. Steve puts them on, looking at Bucky), and Vision finds he got a can opener from Clint, with a note that says, _sorry for breaking your last can opener_.

Bruce Banner pulls out a knitted sweater from his package, “Aren’t you going to open yours?” He asks you.

Slowly, you tear open the sides of your gift, and unhooking the tape carefully to save the paper, you unwrap it. It’s not until it’s in your lap that you realise it’s the red jumper that Wanda wore that time when you sat watching the snow fall in your bedroom.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Isn’t that my sweater –,” Tony goes to ask.

Wanda shakes her head. “No, it’s ________’s now.” You laugh at that, and squeeze her hand.

Wanda grins, and moving closer, forgoes your hand-holding and goes for a kiss. When her lips touch yours, you feel that jolt once again, and once again, there is no electricity, and from up above, it’s snowing faux snow. “Thank you for the best first Christmas ever,” you tell her, and move in once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
